like breaking diamonds with your hand
by Narquelie
Summary: In the pale blue light of the hospital room his eyes look different. There is no warmth there, no joy. They look like two chips of ice. This is not Stiles.


In the pale blue light of the hospital room his eyes look different. There is no warmth there, no joy. They look like two chips of ice.

This is not Stiles.

Lydia wonders how she's going to get out of this alive.

She can hear screams and explosions, feels the heat of the fire that's crawling through the basement. Outside of this eerie room they're in, the world is falling apart.

The lights flicker, framing his face in shadows. Lydia can't move, her legs unwilling to hold her body upright much longer; she presses her back to the sticky wall and jerks her head up to once more assess her surroundings. The door is on the other side of the room – right behind him – and suddenly she finds it hard to remember how they got into this situation in the first place.

Stiles – no, the thing that's inside him – watches her with mild interest, taking slow deliberate steps in her direction. He watches her as if she were a particularly rare breed of bug. A colourful, pretty one perhaps, one you can observe and prod to see how fast its little legs can carry it. (And then, you kill it.)

This is not Stiles.

Lydia grits her teeth, reminds herself to breathe. Wonders if mountain ash would slow him down.

He's close now – two feet away from her – he smells like antiseptic, smoke, and ___Stiles_. He licks his lips.

Lydia reaches into the pocket of her skirt, curls her fingers around the little bag of ash.

He freezes. "Not her?" he asks, frowning, his head tilting to the side. The sound of his voice is startling, ringing in her ears like an alarm bell.

But he's not talking___to_her, she realises with a shudder; his gaze is travelling up and down her body, searching her face, darting from her eyes to her lips to her hands to her red-painted nails to her bright blue skinny heels. His frown deepens. Then, he moves forward, in two swift steps. There is no air between them left.

Her fingers struggle with the ties of the mountain ash bag in her pocket, while her breath comes in harsh, ragged gasps, brushing the pale skin across his collarbones. He's so close she can feel the heat of his body. He moves his hands to her neck (to choke, to squeeze the life out of her, to break every little bone, crush every little vein), and against her better judgement she closes her eyes.

The seconds drag on; she counts the beats of her heart (she can feel it somewhere in her throat), yet still nothing happens.

Lydia dares to open her eyes.

Stiles's – ___the thing's_– hands are placed on the wall on either side of Lydia's head. She can see the veins in his arms, the muscles flexing rapidly, trying to move with no avail. There is a horrific scowl on his face, one that transforms him into something beastly, something vile.

"Not her," he sneers, flashing his teeth. His hands will not – can not – come any closer to her neck. Suddenly Lydia's eyes start to burn.

This is not Stiles, but Stiles ___is_somewhere there, somewhere behind those cold eyes, still trying to protect her even when he's unable to protect himself.

Lydia thinks of all the hunters and trackers and killers willing to shoot him on the spot, no matter the boy locked inside the body of a killer.

If she leaves here, he will continue killing, making himself an easy target.

If she stays, could she push him further, to see how much control he really has?

___Where the fuck is Scott?_

Lydia rises her head, locking her eyes to his, searching. She's yearning, dying for another glimpse of the boy she knew, but all she sees is the cold amber of his eyes, the cruel curve of his mouth. She tries not to blink, fully focused on his face – looking for any flickers, any distortions in the surface. Her throat feels dry and tight from the scream she's been keeping in. Unconsciously she licks her lips.

The muscles in his jaw twitch. "Stop that," he snarls, the warmth of his breath grazing her cheeks.

Lydia frowns, startled, and looks around. She's standing still with her back against the wall and arms pressed tightly to her sides. Her little bag of mountain ash lies unopened a few feet away from her shoe. It is him whose form is towering over her, him with his hands within reaching distance of her neck, his fingers practically digging into the brick wall on each side of her head. And yet, it is her who's doing something that disturbs him, aggravates him; she wonders... is he afraid? Is he afraid she'll scream? (Whatever it is, she positively ___needs _to do it again.)

"I don't know what you're talking about." Her voice comes out rough from disuse. It sounds almost alien to her ears.

He says nothing to that. The sounds outside are getting louder, and he twists in the direction of the door, looking for a glimpse of his pursuers. Lydia's running out of time.

She moves slightly to the left, wondering recklessly if being closer will provoke him (or Stiles) to take action. Her arm brushes against his sleeve, just barely, but it's enough for him to let out a hiss and pull himself away from her. Her eyes widen as she watches him retreat, and did he just... stumble?

"I. Said. Stop," he says through gritted teeth. "Stop doing that."

"Doing what?" Through the bubble of confusion and fear, something else unfolds in her chest. Something that strangely, stupidly, makes her want to laugh. She steps away from the wall, tries to stop her lips from trembling. "Maybe – just maybe – if you described what exactly it is that I'm doing, I'll actually know how to stop it."

He grinds his teeth together, his eyes flashing with open hatred. "Elevated heartbeat. Muscle tension. Shortness of breath. I can't ___think_."

The treacherous bubble moves up to her throat and the urge to burst into laughter nearly chokes her. She swallows. "I see."

And then she smiles.

Her heels click obscenely loud against the hospital floor as she walks in his direction. She doesn't manage to back him into the wall, but his discomfort is obvious, no matter how intently he glowers at her.

"You should not try my patience, girl. I won't spare you next time."

"Liar," she sing-songs. It's so powerful, this sudden feeling of being in control; it makes her believe she can do anything; even that she can be the saviour this time. "You can't kill me."

He bares his teeth in a mockery of a smile. "Do you want me to prove you wrong?"

She walks on, stops only inches away from his rigid form. She can hear the rapid beat of his heart.

"It's funny when you think about it," she muses, reaching out her hand to put it over his chest. She feels his muscles tense beneath her palm, feels the snarl reverberating against his ribcage. "The big bad demon, scared of a little girl."

"I am going to rip your tongue out," he whispers.

Lydia doesn't shiver.

She moves her hand to his wrist, experimentally circles her fingers around it. The anger is coiling inside him like a thick, dark fog, clouding his judgement, weakening his control. He can't force his body to kill her, can't even force it to hurt her or push her away – he's on the losing side. She's winning.

"Do you know what the problem is?"

Her hand slips into his own, terribly clammy and warm; she entwines her fingers with his, and momentarily startles, when she feels his fingers slowly, weakly curl around her own.

Her eyes start burning again.

"You stole this body, not knowing the first thing about it." She looks into those cold, hard eyes, and stretches her lips into a red smile. "And as it turns out – no matter who you are or what you can do – you will never have as much power over this body as I do."

He opens his lips to say something, to mock her, to threaten her – but in one fluid motion she rises her hand to cup his cheek, then crashes her lips to his.

There is nothing sweet or gentle about it, only heat and wild desperation pounding through her veins. Lydia closes her eyes to keep the tears away as she kisses him full on the mouth, with her hand curled so tightly around his own, shielding herself from those cold, hateful eyes that seem to be burning their way through her skin. When she closes her eyes, there is nothing but the warmth of his mouth and the comforting smell of him – it somehow makes the whole horrid ordeal slightly better.

He's kissing her back – and she doesn't dare let herself believe that it's really Stiles; yet his hands are gentle, so gentle; curling around her waist, pulling her closer. She feels it in the slight, tentative pressure of his lips against her own. She relaxes her hold on his cheek – she's been biting her nails into his skin – and tilts her head to the side, feels the way her nose presses into the curve of his cheekbone. There's a renewed sort of urgency driving her, when she slips both her arms around his neck, pulling closer and closer and closer, sucking on his bottom lip and tracing the inside of his mouth with her tongue.

She draws back – or maybe he does, she doesn't really know – and only when she feels his fingers slide over her cheeks, wiping her tears, does she allow herself to open her eyes.

"Lydia," he says, with his eyes glossy and bright and so very, very beautiful. He gives her a brave smile - maybe a little strained at the corners of his too-red, swollen lips; the sight makes her feel like her heart is finally going to burst. A strangled sob escapes her throat.

She buries her face into his chest, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt. Stiles's arms slide back around her – his touch is firm, ___real_, his cheek pressed into her hair. She can't stop the tears, or the merciless shivering of her body, but it doesn't really matter anymore.

_This is Stiles._

"Yeah, well – that was... something," he says, and even from her place buried in his shirt, she can hear that he's still smiling.

She wants to roll her eyes and hit him really hard.

(And then kiss him, again.)


End file.
